


A bad end

by acaramelmacchiato



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Amis get a dog friend, Duelling, Gambling, Gen, Personal challenge: Courfeyrac gets a pug, Shenanigans, The amis are kind of obnoxious, boys are dorks, especially if you are Bossuet, gambling is bad for you, pre-Marius Amis hijinks, this is totally pointless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Courfeyrac gets a pug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Eugh," said someone, "can’t you do anything about this heat?"

 

Louison waited in silence.

 

"Honestly, it’s the heat more than my own wretched poverty which prevents me asking for a bottle of wine," he continued, and one of his friends kicked him.

 

"Burgundy," the friend said, with a wavering apologetic grin. "Put some strength in his blood, you know, so he’ll shut up."

 

Louison raised her eyebrows fractionally.

 

"Uhm--" the friend continued, his voice a bit feebler, "Because it’s, I’m sure to you, mademoiselle, _ra_ ther annoying -- I -- ah," he looked at the floor. "Burgundy."

 

"Burgundy," said Louison and left.

 

A few people in the vicinity were laughing quietly, and L’Aigle de Meaux, sensing his own element, leaned back precariously in his chair and winked.

 

"A sou for each time that barmaid has reduced us so we dither like Lear, or speak nonsense like schoolboys, and I’d be a rich man.  I’d clear out of Courfeyrac’s room once and for all, buy an insensible number of hats--"

 

"-- Really?" said Courfeyrac. "I had come to understand that you were in funds, and continued to roost with me because you are lonely."

 

Some of the assembled law students laughed, tossing around a few varied comments about the solitary nature of eagles.  

 

Courfeyrac went on: "Not that our arrangement is particularly cozy. I’m sorry to say it in front of everyone. But the fact is I haven’t seen Bossuet at home for nearly a week. Repeat this _pianissimo_ only, my friends, but I’m quite sure the poor fellow has fallen heart and soul for the casino."

 

L’Aigle laughed. "Heart, wallet, credit perhaps, but never soul. Gentlemen! Do not ever lose your souls to gambling, you will come to a bad end --"

 

Standing up to say more, he caught an ankle on his chair and fell forward with wooden clatter, an exclamation of surprising filth, and a crowning shattering noise as his wineglass joined him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On their way down the street, an idea seized Courfeyrac and he stopped walking.

 

"Bossuet, where is it that you play?"

 

"Why, just three streets over from the Corinthe. I am headed there now."

 

"What, that place with the bad lighting and the velvet on the walls?" Bahorel said.

 

"I think I know it," said Combeferre. "Very hideous portrait of Voltaire in the back?"

 

"The very same," Bossuet shrugged. "It’s a hole, but I’ve had a run of good luck I’m unwilling to break."

 

Saying this without irony, he stepped with a splash into a grim-looking puddle. Feuilly frowned as it splattered collaterally on his own trousers.  

 

"And what is it you play? I am of course, picturing your involvement in a very thoughtful game of whist."

 

"Lansquenet, or faro."

 

"Well. Gentlemen, here it is. I have decided that I will accompany this muddy fellow here to his game of lansquenet tonight, as I do not know his casino and am unlikely to already be in arrears. Besides, I am keen to see Bossuet benefit from luck. It will be a curiosity. Are you all with me?"

 

"Not I," said Feuilly, straightening his cap and preparing to break off down the cross-street. "Good luck, though, I shall see you all on Thursday."

 

"Nor I," Bahorel shook his head. "Too hot in all that velvet, I think."

 

"Combeferre?" Courfeyrac gave him an encouraging smile.

 

"And why not," Combeferre shrugged. “You’re right -- and I’m sorry to say it, Lesgles, but I have studied physics, and therefore I’m awfully curious to see you on a winning spree.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

"L’Aigle de Meaux has lost at lansquenet, and as you can well imagine it was a spectacular loss," Courfeyrac announced to his assembled friends the next day, though most of them had already heard. "I, by contrast, won quite spectacularly. Incident to that I am engaged to fight a duel on Saturday."

 

This was greeted with silence.

 

Joly put his head in his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

This is how it happened.

 

Of course the game was weighted heavily with law students. They were most of them familiar with Bossuet, and while they were shaking hands he introduced Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

 

The law students nodded and then introduced their own stranger. He was not a particularly tall man, fashionably dressed, with a robust dark moustache and two waistcoats. It was during his introduction that the experience began to deteriorate:

 

"Very good to meet you," one of the law students said, shaking Courfeyrac’s hand. "And may I present a recent but valued acquaintance, the Baron of Hiddenhausen in Westphalia."

 

"Hiddenhausen," said Courfeyrac, "is that anywhere near Thunder-ten-Tronckh?"

 

The man swung at him a weighted, resentful glare. "It isn’t. Thankfully German has no actual words so ugly as the garbage devised by Voltaire."

 

The law students and Bossuet, who seemed to be between loyalties, laughed tensely.

 

"Oh," said Courfeyrac lightly, "you’ll have to forgive me, sir, to be honest I had no idea that ‘Thunder-ten-Tronckh’ was not real German."

 

The baron nodded, hawkish eyebrows lifting in dissatisfaction, and reached for a cigarette.

 

In no time at all Bossuet had lost all of his money as well as his watch, and was turning out his pockets, in search of undiscovered wealth.

 

The baron was cleaning up admirably, and after another hour, two of the law students had backed out of the game when their profits began to dwindle.

 

"Come now," said the baron, "that’s hardly how to go about the legal profession, my lads. Such timidity is the province of accountants! Here, put your money back in play and let’s see how you bluff. I’ll say if it’s enough to stand before the bar."

 

They were persuaded easily enough.

 

"Just money, after all," said one, "better to have some fun with it than just let the stuff accumulate!"

 

A round of laughter.

 

"Here, let’s give l’Aigle a fifth of our share each and reverse his abominable glower."

 

"I’m not glowering abominably, I am calculating if I have personal charms enough to retain a mistress in my penury --" but he took the rubble of casino notes.

 

"Certainly you have," Courfeyrac reassured him. "And anyway, a man who will sacrifice a fortune at the tables is a certain kind of hero."

 

"He jests at scars who never felt a wound," said the baron, indicating Courfeyrac with the end of his cigarette."How many hands have you lost, my boy? I can’t remember. Just winning your small increments, hand by hand?"

 

"I can’t pretend to know your meaning."

 

"I say," one of the law students spoke up, arranging his casino notes to keep the table neater, "lighten up, and we’ll all have another drink."

 

They did, and for the next few rounds they passed the time enjoyably, until Bossuet had once again exhausted his borrowed money.

 

With Bossuet relegated to observation, the baron wagered all his notes. Courfeyrac was the only one capable of matching the sum, which he did, and won the hand.

 

The baron grunted.

 

"Amazing!" one of the law students said, clapping Courfeyrac on the shoulder. " _Una cosa rara_!"

 

"Honesty, beauty, or luck at lansquenet? I’ll admit to all of them."

 

"Hmph," said the baron, "The latter two, at least. I propose a final bet."

 

"The stakes?" someone asked, leaning in.

 

"Probably his whole estate in Westphalia!"

 

"Against Courfeyrac’s paltry pile of notes? No. Perhaps his own estates!"

 

"His apartment at least."

 

"But that would leave the poor eagle without an eyrie."

 

The baron held up his hand, and the speculation faded. "I shall wager the most precious thing I have with me in Paris, against your pile of notes."

 

"Well what is it?" someone blurted.

 

"That is the question. You shan’t know unless you win. Do you accept?"

 

Courfeyrac looked at his winnings, then into the challenging eyes and immobile moustache of his opponent. "Of course I accept," he said.

 

When he won that hand, the baron bit down on his cigarette. "Remove your coat, boy," he growled.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"Remove your coat, I want to see your shirtsleeves and reassure myself you haven’t got your own deck in there."

 

There was a flustered minute of conversation as Courfeyrac stood up and began to work one of his gloves off.

 

"Hang on a minute, he didn’t mean it--"

 

"Of course I bloody meant it, why is his coat still on?"

 

After a moment of indecision about what end of the glove to grasp, Courfeyrac gripped the wrist and struck the baron across the face with the fingers.

 

"You shall find me at home tomorrow, sir, and if I am not there I am at the Café Musain or at class."

 

And then he had to sit back down and straighten out his casino notes to collect them.

 

 

* * *

 

After Courfeyrac announced his upcoming fight to his friends at the Musain, they all set about trying to choose his seconds. Bahorel claimed that he had done it before, and volunteered to accompany Courfeyrac on the condition that he inherit a particular hat if the enterprise were to go awry. One place filled, Bahorel himself set about choosing the other.

 

"Combeferre, how are your tourniquets?"

 

"Adequate," Combeferre answered after thinking about it.

 

"And have you a flask of something strong enough to produce the symptoms of courage?"

 

Combeferre shook his head. "But I can guess that you do, Bahorel?"

 

"I do, I do. And this is all we need for a duel! Oh. Courfeyrac, you’ve a pistol, haven’t you?"

 

Courfeyrac didn’t.

 

"Then we must find you one! I’m positive Enjolras can help you there, if we ever find him. Something very old and magnificent and probably inherited from Eleanor of Aquitaine or one of the Apostles or something."

 

"The apostles didn’t have pistols," said Joly flatly. He had looked glum ever since the announcement of the duel, and confided in an accidentally loud voice to Combeferre that he expected Courfeyrac would be killed. "Why not just send the man a note apologizing for your behavior, say that you were drunk, you are sorry, you forgive him and hope he shall forgive you."

 

"I will not. Drunkenness excuses nothing. It is only when we are inebriated that we set goals high enough to challenge ourselves in sobriety. It is the antidote to misery."

 

"It’s a bad habit and anyway you should apologize."

 

"Prouvaire’s is a very old and blood-thirsty family, isn’t it?" he said, giving Prouvaire an appraising glance.

 

"Only a little bloodthirsty," said Prouvaire.

 

"Nonsense!" said Bahorel heartily, seizing Prouvaire’s shoulder for a good-natured shake. "Your father’s been in duels."

 

"Oh, scads of them, that’s true enough."

 

"Have you therefore any advice?"

 

Prouvaire thought. Then he spoke: "Well, the best that I understand the thing: Courfeyrac, the trick is to fire first, and very accurately into the other fellow."

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

"And there you have it!" Bahorel said in triumph. "An unassailable strategy."

 

Courfeyrac smiled, but he then started to promise his things to his friends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: I found this on my computer, totally old and abandoned and half-finished, and it took me an hour of detective work to figure out what it was supposed to be (pug). I can't tell you why I thought that the Everest of Hugofic is to make Courfeyrac acquire a pug but ... I guess I did. 
> 
> 1\. This OC might be Vautrin. Safe to say all my Hu-zac-verse OCs are Vautrin. Even the ones who aren't supposed to be.
> 
> 2\. Una cosa rara, ossia Bellezza ed onesta, by Vicente Martin y Soler, is probably not the most spectacular conversational reference but #lawstudents
> 
> 3\. So ... I think I always write Courfeyrac a little too dickish. Sorry buddy!


	2. Chapter 2

"The Baron of what?" Enjolras asked, digging up the pistol with a little uncertainty.

 

"Hiddenhausen, in Westphalia," said Courfeyrac glumly.

 

Enjolras found the case and opened it to check for the parts. "Is that anywhere near Thunder-ten-Tronckh?"

 

Courfeyrac grimaced. "I said the same thing. Apparently he’s sensitive about it."

 

"Hmm. I can’t see why. Oh well. Do you know how to use this?”

 

"Of course."

 

Enjolras picked it up anyway. "Powder goes in here. There’s more in the case, and I don’t know how many minié balls."

 

"I’ll only need one, “ Courfeyrac said bleakly.

 

Enjolras frowned. "Two, in special circumstances. Do you know how to use a percussion lock?"

 

"It can’t be very difficult. I thought this would be an antique."

 

"Maybe it was, in any case I’ve had it modified. Stupid to have an outdated weapon -- with the percussion lock there will be no puff of smoke, and it’ll still fire in the rain."

 

"That’s something. Especially if there’s rain."

 

"Well," Enjolras paused, his keen gaze on his friend, then sighed. "Tomorrow, is it?"

 

Courfeyrac sat down by the windowpane. "At dawn. Bahorel and Combeferre are coming with. Combeferre at least knows how to do a tourniquet. Well, is there anything of mine you’d like if I die?"

 

Enjolras laughed at that, and put his hand on his friend’s arm. He shook it slightly, then slapped him on the back.

 

"You’ll be fine. This baron is a pompous nobody, you’re a child of the century, and this is a good pistol. Just be sure to fire first -- and accurately -- you’ll hit him, and it will be over."

 

Courfeyrac put his face in his hands and laughed, leaning back against the windowpane. "God, Prouvaire said the same thing. I’m following Prouvaire’s advice. I’m doomed."

 

"Did he!" Enjolras’ voice was warm with amusement, and Courfeyrac felt better. "Well, come look me up when it’s over."

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Bahorel has been standing for ten minutes in the pearl-grey dawn, kicking at the grass and not speaking, before the baron arrived.

 

Courfeyrac took a quick nip from Bahorel’s flask. He started to hand it back, then changed his mind and took a heartier drink.

 

The fiacre stopped, and two men -- one of the law students from the casino and a bored-looking gentleman in glasses -- emerged. Then, finally, with a deafening creak of the step, the baron.

 

He had in his left arm a somnolent, fawn-colored dog with a pushed-in face and big mournful eyes. It roused from the movement, and peered with surprise around the clearing in the woods. Then it turned its little face up to the baron, in confused hauteur, like it hoped for an explanation.

 

Bahorel coughed, Courfeyrac went for the flask again, and Combeferre frowned.

 

"Monsieur,” said Courfeyrac, “I did not know the Westphalian custom was so different, I have brought a pistol for our duel instead of a dog."

 

The little dog made a displeased noise and struggled to be set down. The baron tightened his arm around its shoulders. "This is nothing to do with a duel. I honor my debts," he said, deep voice resentful, and extended the dog to Courfeyrac.

 

"Your debts…?" he said, in honest disbelief, not moving to take the dog.

 

"The most precious thing I have with me in Paris. My wife’s dog, before she died."

 

Bahorel stared for a full minute before he turned his back to the action, bracing his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder as he bent in two, laughing helplessly.

 

Combeferre twitched an eyebrow and then took his glasses off.

 

"Sorry," said Bahorel, turning around. "Sorry. I’ve been at the -- well, been at it since last night," he said, taking the flask firmly from Courfeyrac.

 

Combeferre took the dog and they paced themselves out to fire. In less than ten minutes it was over, Courfeyrac victorious and the baron holding a handkerchief to a bullet's scrape on his elbow.

 

 

* * *

 

"I’m wondering if I shouldn’t name him Enjolras," said Courfeyrac later that night, feeding the pug a crust of bread that he’d been dipping in port wine to soften it.

 

Louison had been coming around on the half hour to swat them apart with threats like, "You’ll kill that dog."

 

Enjolras stared him down. "You will not call him after me."

 

"Why not? He has that look, that same look you have," Bahorel noted, trying to tempt the dog to play with Joly’s cane. It ignored him frostily, choosing instead to lick a wet line up from Courfeyrac’s chin. "See how he ignores me? He’s you, only at the same time, a dog. Perfection."

 

"You are absolutely going to kill it," Joly said, watching it strive for the port glass.

 

"Our actions are autonomous, and it is to them that praise and blame naturally attach, said Epicurus to Menoeceus. _I_ will have done nothing if our little Enjolras dies."

 

"It will not even take you long," said Joly, with sadness.

 

"Stop calling him my name," said Enjolras, standing up and gathering his things.

 

 ~~THE END FOR SOME REASON.~~  

NOPE NOT THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no more notes.
> 
> Only apologies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac turns out to be a great pet owner and Bahorel descends into insanity or patriotic duty.

 

“I have resolved the question of what to call him,” said Courfeyrac to Bahorel. The were walking the down the quai Saint-Bernard, having left the Jardin des Plantes in haste after the little dog had bitten three children along the allée Jussieu and latched onto the wheel of a perambulator outside the Alpine garden.

 

“I thought it was decided, _Enjolras chien_ , an intermediary step between _Enjolras père,_ and _Enjolras fils_.”

 

“Alas, it does not suit him. You don’t seen Enjolras snapping macarons from the hands of children too young to walk, or even children old enough to run.”

 

“Not so often now,” Bahorel agreed.

 

At Courfeyrac’s side the pug had grown tired and sat himself down on the street. Courfeyrac bent, picked him up, and walked on.

 

Bahorel stared.

 

“He prefers occasionally to be carried,” Courfeyrac said, fondly. “I wonder if his attack on the perambulator was more a siege -- something he wanted badly and had decided to take by force. Again, not qualities we observe in our friends. In fact he is without manners. I shall call him simply Carl, a Dog.”

 

The dog rested his haughty, wrinkled face in Courfeyrac’s elbow and, with a few preliminary kicking motions, went to sleep. Without disturbing the dog, Courfeyrac took off one of his gloves with his teeth, and petted its head with his bare hand. This caused its worrying asthmatic wheeze to worsen with pleasure.

 

* * *

  

“Gentlemen,” said Bahorel, having come to the Musain for supper and lingered well on through a bottle. “The bell tolls, Jove lifts the golden balances and we perceive our fates. Permanence beckons, our destiny taps his foot and regards his timepiece with a sigh. We are at Philippi, and we see the specter before us. I have lost my thought! I have wandered from the point and forgotten it, though I believe it did exist. I shall lapse into silence,” and so saying, he did.

 

Joly squinted at him, searched his pockets for something to squint through, and finding nothing he spoke: “I discern that you were attempting to address us on the subject of fate, or destiny, though perhaps you were accelerating toward duty.”

 

“I do not differentiate!” Bahorel raised his finger and rediscovered his theme. “And I have remembered. Our brother Courfeyrac. Do you see him here?”

 

Several of them actually looked around the room.

 

With a very annoyed expression and silent focus, Prouvaire slowly drew back a curtain. When Courfeyrac was not revealed behind it, he seemed mildly surprised, and reclined again in his seat to take up his pencil.

 

“Well,” Bossuet, who had paid to share Bahorel’s bottle of wine,lifted it. With an expression of dismay he turned it fully upside-down to refresh his cup. “No. We do not see him. I have drawn a conclusion: He is not present.”

 

“Correct!” cried Bahorel, and stood. “He is at home in his small apartment with a proud and paternal gaze regarding his _pug_ , that loaf-of-bread creature he won at cards, that ill-tempered absurdity of nature.”

 

“Oh,” said Prouvaire fondly. “I’d forgotten about the pug! It is well? I was positive it was going to die when Courfeyrac was given care of it, I have never been happier to be wrong.”

 

“What is the creature’s name?” asked Joly, a finger on his lip as he tried to recall it.

 

“ _Carl un chien_ ,” said Bahorel, pronouncing the name with every oratorical device of asperity.

 

His friends all laughed.

 

“How excellent,” said Bossuet. “How clever. Literal. Moral. Anagogical. The little pug will dog our dull society.”

 

“You have not grasped the point,” Bahorel started to say.

 

Jehan spoke over him: “Bossuet, you have forgotten that the third pillar is the _allegorical_ and that without it the roof that is Dante’s epistle to Can Grande collapses.”

 

Bossuet regarded both of them with his eyebrows somewhat lifted. “I did not mean to be taken so seriously; Prouvaire, I only meant that it is an excellent joke in three parts, I do not take pugs to be theology lessons. Bahorel, if you’re jealous you must bring your complaint to Courfeyrac and Carl and perhaps among the three of you peace can be achieved.”

 

Joly laughed into his handkerchief. “Let us hope the roofers at our dear café have used something sturdier than an epistle to Can Francesco della Scala.”

 

Bahorel made a defiant attempt to swig his empty drink, straightened his gloves, and left.

 

“Be careful how you close the door!” called Joly to his back. “We are still worried for the soundness of the roof after having forgotten _allegorico_!”

 

* * *

  

“They’re popular subjects,” said Feuilly, not having an actual opinion on the dog as Bahorel has asked him to give. He dusted off a slightly wilted apple on his sleeve and bit into it, chewing silently before he realized that Bahorel expected more words on the subject. “The pug dog, I mean. Typically a more urban scene. Playing with children. Sitting next to a young lady. Alone. In company of two additional pug dogs. The colors vary. I’ve sketched Carl several times. He has an interesting face. Very like a gentleman.”

 

Bahorel gaped, and made, as he reached for words, a silent gesture of rage.

 

“I’ve upset you,” said Feuilly. “So I apologize. The pug dog is not a popular subject. They are never depicted in any type of scene. The colors do not vary. I have never sketched Carl a Dog and his face is uninteresting as well as lowly.”

 

 “You are all so taken in by that lump of bread! That miniature tyrant! Sketch him transforming into a pear, rather, and you shall see a startling resemblance!” said Bahorel, when his reason caught up with his anger.

 

Feuilly shrugged. “I’ll sketch him turning into anything you like, if you pay.”

 

Bahorel snatched his apple away. “You miss the point!”

 

“Possibly,” Feuilly agreed. “Give that back.”

 

“No,” said Bahorel, and Feuilly simply reached out and took the apple, which had not been in a very firm grip.

 

“Talk to Courfeyrac if you’re upset about it,” he said.

 

* * *

  

Courfeyrac was astounded.

 

Carl, a Dog, reposing in his lap, did not even acknowledge Bahorel’s presence with a glance. Courfeyrac fed him a piece of dried sausage and said, “I do not know exactly what it is you’re accusing me of, it sounds rather like you believe that my dog is capable of and is practicing witchcraft, but I do not understand what you perceive to be his goal.”

 

“Destruction,” said Bahorel, seriously. “Of our common friendship, and then of our politics and finally we will all age into comfort and eventually die without accomplishment.”

 

“Because of my pug,” said Courfeyrac.

 

“A week ago it wasn’t your pug! It was an unwanted winning from a game of lansquenet. It was a future gift for some girl.”

 

“And now,” said Courfeyrac, levelly. “He is my pug. Two years ago you were an acquaintance. Now you are my friend. Do you perceive the evolution? Good. Perhaps you can embark on a similar one with Carl.”

 

* * *

 

Finally Bahorel appealed to Grantaire.

 

“An assassination,” said Grantaire. “You’re actually serious.”

 

“Never more so,” said Bahorel.

 

“Explain why.”

 

“I shouldn’t need to. It’s plain what’s happened to Courfeyrac, and are we men of action or are we men of drawing-room talk?”

 

Grantaire held up a hand to stop him. “What makes you think I am in the business of murdering people’s pets? I don’t murder Prouvaire’s flowers –”

 

“-- He does that handily alone --”

 

“-- And I don’t murder Combeferre’s medical school chums or anyone’s lovers, in fact the number of murders I have committed in service of camaraderie is currently zero.”

 

“Still,” Bahorel began.

 

“Still nothing,” Grantaire finished it. “You must learn to suffer life as it is served to us. Sour and intoxicating. Our parents will die or have already. We will grow sick of pleasure and more relentless in seeking it. The Palatine will rise further and the Aventine sink lower. Your friends will acquire pets that they like. I cannot help you, only God can help you, and it is a bad wager that he will.”

 

* * *

 

A full three days passed before Bahorel tried to poison the pug.

 

“You shouldn’t be feeding him wine,” said Joly, when Bahorel tried, with a taut expression, to get the dog to drink out of the fateful cup.

 

“If that is wine,” said Courfeyrac with suspicion. “Is there boot black in that cup?”

 

“No,” said Bahorel, untruthfully.

 

Courfeyrac did not interrogate him, but merely overturned the cup out the window.

 

Carl lifted his eyes to Bahorel in cool disdain, and Bahorel recognized in that moment that his enemy had acknowledged him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I just ... I really just want a pug.
> 
> 2\. Carl, a Dog, or _Carl, un chien_ , is like a pathetic oronym for _carlin chien_ that I tortured into existence through sheer force of stupidity. 
> 
> 3\. "Jove lifts the golden balances that show  the fates of mortal men, and things below." from the Illiad via Pope and then uhm reversed to French??
> 
> 4\. The specter at Philippi, from Plutarch.
> 
> 5\. Dante's four-fold method is improperly used. This fic is about pugs. It's about pugs and their beautiful pug faces. 
> 
> 6\. Did not end up needing but everyone should probably read this just because it exists: http://nycdoggies.com/dog-food-the-story-of-kibble
> 
> 7\. Clearly this was an excellent use of my time and also yours


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedge is driven between our heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writte for the prompt: "carl makes a dog friend; courfeyrac feels threatened, bahorel is triumphant"
> 
> so probably cheating to just tack it on to this story but if I had multiple pugfics floating around that would be just

“I say!” Courfeyrac took a shocked step backward before he lunged forward, an athletic movement like a fencer striking a blow  _d’estoc_ , reaching after his small pug.  

Carl the pug sidestepped him neatly.

But this had the effect of startling the delicate white dog presently playing the role of Carl’s  _inamorata._ His forepaws slipped to the ground and the two dogs turned to face one another. Courfeyrac seized his opportunity. With a fast and decisive struggle he took Carl up into his arms.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and bent his head to the lady who had been strolling with her little white dog of Malta, the same dog Carl had paused to sniff at and then had so abruptly and publicly disgraced.

She laughed, which surprised him.

But then, she was the age of his own grandmother, a woman who had spent her best years in the previous century and called modern culture prim. His grandmother would have laughed at the spectacle as well.

“You have no cause to,” she said. “Neither have you the authority to stand in the way of young love, so boldly pursued! You are hindrance; Don Rodrigue and Don Diègue at once.”

Carl was struggling against his grip, the warm and efficient corpulence of his natural shape making him difficult to hold. Courfeyrac juggled him up to put his head on a shoulder, then gave the woman half of a bewildered smile.

“My only objection was to their choice of place, madam, assure yourself. Still, I suppose we’ll have to marry them off,” he said.

On the ground, the dog of Malta had her dark, forlorn gaze on Carl’s wriggling back end.

The old woman laughed, and tugged her pet away -- leaving time for one longing stare to be exchanged between the two dogs.  When the white dog had finally turned a corner, Carl heaved a boundless, bad-smelling sigh onto Courfeyrac’s face.

 

* * *

 

“I worry for Carl,” said Courfeyrac. “He is melancholy, there is a very life in his despair. He takes no delight. He sighs, endlessly, the shadow of a starless night — ”

“He  _wheezes_ ,” Joly told him. “I am his friend as much as you are, but I daresay that you should not take his labored breathing for a sigh, for that would shadow the whole of what we understand to be his personality.”

Courfeyrac glared. “I am not stupid. I have heard him breathe in every form of distress and exertion, and I tell you that now he heaves  _sighs_ , like his heart is breaking.”

“The poor creature!” cried Bossuet.  “I wonder if he is in love.”

Courfeyrac looked for some time at the ground. His thoughts were obscure, perhaps stupefied, and although he did not say what he contemplated for those few minutes his brows drew together, and he frowned.

“In love,” he said, quietly. Then, with resolution: “Gentlemen, my friends, L’Aigle may well be correct -- I dare not divulge the circumstance, for respect of the lady, but yes, it was not last week when I interrupted Carl  _in blazing offense_  or quite nearly, how does one tell, but they are separated now, and without a doubt he languishes. We must help him, for certainly we are able.”

“Carl, a dog,  _in flagrante_?” said Bossuet.

Joly said: “Your secrecy profits nothing. Obviously we have to know who his paramour is in order to unite them. Where does she live? What color roses will please her? Does she go to the theater? And all the rest.”

Courfeyrac assumed an attitude of deep thought and finally revealed that he did not know, the dog was white, it was on the small side, and he could say nothing more.

 

* * *

 

“Have you heard,” said Bahorel, “that Courfeyrac believes his dog is in love?”

Prouvaire, trying to secure the knot of his necktie, raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “I won’t talk to you about Carl, a dog, for I love and admire him.”

“I shall say this once: That creature is a dog, and a fat one, and though it is not smart enough to be cruel it is malicious. We hate one another. It must be resolved somehow. I have a plan; he, I am sure has none. That knot will be sideways.”

Prouvaire undid it and started again, with more vigor. “This is why I said I shall not speak to you about Carl, you become aggravating.”

“Strangling yourself hardly makes your point,” Bahorel said, but Prouvaire had completed the knot.

“Still, it would be a fine way to show commitment. Are we going to be late?” They were headed to the Opéra-Comique for Zamba, and so were not overly motivated to arrive on time.

“Probably not very. I’ve heard the beginning is slow, so let us be likewise. I am going to tell you my plan, since I trust your discretion, it is this: I will find this lady dog, this Venus of the kennel, this --”

Prouvaire had turned around to cross his arms and glare. “Certainly. And then?”

“And then Carl, like a child grown and on his wedding day, will leave Courfeyrac for good.”

Prouvaire stood silently for a long moment, then pulled his gloves on, and strode to the door. “There is no fault to your conclusion. It is correct. There is an aureole of genius on it. Zamba will go on through the season, let us find Carl’s Venus.”

 

* * *

 

The denouement happened, as is not uncommon, completely by accident.

Prouvaire and Bahorel were sneaking up to Courfeyrac’s building with deplorable stealth; Bossuet and Joly were just leaving it. The dog in Bossuet’s arms, he confided, had turned out to be the fourth stray this week that Carl had coolly rejected.

“Courfeyrac hopes that there shall be no future Madame  _un Chien_ ,” said Joly. “It’s very plain. But we are compelled to try, nevertheless.”

“You’ve been plucking dogs out of the gutter all week?” said Bahorel, in amazement.

“Well, Bossuet has done much of the plucking, and we observe them to discern if there are fleas. Are you going up? Give Courfeyrac a good bucking up, or entertain him, whatever, this week is going dreadfully and there’s enough of the evening left that L’Aigle and myself must try at least one dog more.”

Saying this, Joly tipped his hat and moved carefully out of the range of the stray’s teeth, and went off into the obscure night with Bossuet.

 

* * *

 

In the apartment, Courfeyrac and Carl sat on opposite sides of the room, in which the air could be said to be colder. The chill was one of discomfort and distance.

Courfeyrac sat at the writing desk, Carl on the bed.

They both barely greeted the opening of the unlocked door, and Prouvaire and Bahorel  came up short in surprise.

“This is really as bad as it sounded,” said Prouvaire.

Carl sighed, and rolled slightly onto his side, the melancholy of his gaze hardening into antipathy when he saw Bahorel.

“No change, no pause, no hope, yet we endure,” said Courfeyrac.

Prouvaire sat down next to the pug, who lifted his head to have his ears stroked. He did not look at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac did not look at him.

Bahorel had very subtly adjusted his posture -- taller, straighter, with his feet set apart and his shoulders held wide. There a grandeur to him; a triumphant air that could not -- not quite -- be described as the manner of a man who bribes a neighbor to take a walk with her pretty dog in a park where a hated enemy is seen with regularity.

Slowly, perceived by no one but Carl, Bahorel smiled.

The effect was this:

The fur on the back of the pug’s neck rose.

His small folded eyebrows lifted. And his hard gaze lighted once again on Bahorel, acknowledging the hit -- and preparing the riposte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oh. Warnings for dog humping I guess. Uh. 
> 
> 2\. "A very life in our despair," from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. "Shadow of a starless night" from Shelley's Revolt of Islam. Today is English Romanticism Day in Courfeyracland apparently.
> 
> 3\. Cravats are hard! Are cravats hard? I don't know! NEED CRAVAT HELPLINE.
> 
> 4\. "No change, no pause" is Prometheus unbound so happy Byron and Shelley Day! /lazy
> 
> 5\. (derps into the sea)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [neither the end nor the beginning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/865168) by [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen)




End file.
